


Constrast

by Silveriss



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: (this fic is rated t for trauma), Bonding Over Shared Trauma, Journalist!Andrew Minyard, M/M, Meet-Cute, Painter!Neil Josten, Wymack runs a coffee shop, and still manages to basically adopt the Foxes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:47:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21809767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silveriss/pseuds/Silveriss
Summary: Painting is everything for Neil. It’s what’s kept him going while he was on the run, and it’s what pays for his flat and his food nowadays. So when the man who made this dream a reality asks him to paint a mural for his shopfront, Neil is more than happy to say yes - and that’s before he realised that Wymack actually intended to pay him.Neil gets more than he bargained for, however, when a normal day of work ends up accidentally involving one angry, blond Minyard with a taste for expensive shirts.
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 32
Kudos: 291
Collections: AFTG Exchange Winter 2019





	Constrast

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cowboymoonking](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cowboymoonking/gifts).



> I wrote this for @sofiescastle! You asked for a meet-cute, so that’s what I tried to do. I’m not that good at writing rom-com-y situations, but I gave it my best and I hope you’ll enjoy it!!  
> I tried to keep it fluffy, but I'm not sure I succeeded.
> 
> (Also, sorry that I’m posting this on the last day possible. I’m really bad at deadlines.)

Neil shut the trunk of the van and wiped his hands on his pants, leaving spots and specks of paint at various stages of drying upon the rough fabric. Better his work clothes than the steering wheel, although the inside of the van certainly wasn’t spotless. Neil had only so much energy devoted to keeping things clean, and he tended to use it on his possessions that _weren’t_ part of his work, like dishes and his couch.

(Granted, he’d found the couch next to a garbage can, but once his friends had helped him get it cleaned up and brought into his apartment, no one could have told the difference. And it’d made the space look _permanent,_ which wasn’t a word Neil’d ever had a habit of using for the places he lived in. But now? Now he had a _carpet.)_

Neil got into the van and grabbed his phone. He went to his contacts, clicked on one of his favorites, and counted the ringtones it took for Wymack to pick up.

“Hey, kiddo,” Wymack’s gruff voice said after the third beep. “You at the shop yet?”

“Not yet. I just finished loading the van, I should be there in ten minutes.”

As he spoke, Neil put the key into the ignition and checked the time. He’d told Wymack he would be there by 9, and he would be.

“Alright. Text me when you’re parked, I’ll help you unload and show you what you’re working with.”

“I can-”

“Nope, don’t even try,” Wymack’s voice cut off. “You’re doing me a favor, kid, I’m helping you get your shit out of your shit car whether you like it or not.”

“It’s not a favor,” Neil pointed out.“You’re paying me.”

“Damn right I am, so you better do as I say,” Wymack concluded, then hung up before Neil could say anything else.

Neil pulled the handbrake and started the car.

* * *

It took him exactly 7 seven minutes to reach _The Foxhole’s_ block, and barely another to find a practical parking place nearby. At nine in the morning on a monday, he hadn’t expected anything less.

Neil debated unloading the trunk by himself after all (he estimated that he had about five minutes before Wymack got tired of waiting for his call and showed up to check the premises), but decided he was grateful for the job and for Wymack in general, and dutifully sent the text he’d been asked for.

Wymack arrived two minutes later. They had all of Neil’s supplies by the coffeeshop in five, and Neil wasted no time getting it all ready once that was done.

Wymack picked up a roll of masking tape. “You can paint over everything from here,” he said, putting a piece of tape on the pavement roughly one meter to the left of the coffee shop's shutter door, and then another one on the right, “to here.”

Neil glanced up from the bucket of soap water he was hunched over to check. Wymack had shown him the surface he would be working with already, when he’d come over a few days ago to talk it out. The coffee shop had been open though, so he hadn’t been able to see the whole thing. As far as canvases went, it was pretty great..

“You can paint as high as the ground floor goes, since I don’t own the whole building,” Wymack added. “And keep the sign clean.”

Neil unfolded the stepladder and propped it next to the wall, a few centimeters left of the paintable surface so it wouldn’t be in the way at the beginning when he didn’t need it.

“Anything else?”

“Just make it look good. I’ve already approved the sketches.” He clapped a heavy hand on Neil’s shoulder. “You’ve got talent.”

Neil breathed in, blowing the tension that Wymack’s gesture had awakened out of his system and into the sunny morning air. “Thank you, sir.”

Wymack squeezed his shoulder once and let go. “Now get on with it. I’ve got accounts to review.”

“Yes sir,” Neil said, earning an eyeroll.

Then Wymack was leaving, and Neil was smiling as he turned to the wall. He grabbed the mop and started to clean the dust and grime off of it.

 _The Foxhole’s_ shopfront was already painted a solid color, a green that Wymack wanted to keep for the background, so all the prep that was left after that was taping the borders and protecting the sign and the ground with tarps.

Neil had used grids before, to help him stay accurate and faithful to the proportions, and he had to admit they were useful, but he’d decided early on that he wouldn’t use one for this mural. It wasn’t heavy on perspective or placement like some of his work could be, for once, but mostly he just liked it better when he was working freehand. It left more breathing room for the instinctive changes Neil liked to bring to the designs as he transformed the idea into the real thing. Sketches never translated perfectly onto their medium, especially murals. It could be frustrating, as they never turned out exactly as he’d expected, but that was what he loved most about it.

The design for _The Foxhole’s_ mural was simple enough. Wymack had asked for _‘foxes and flowers’;_ Abby had wanted it _‘wild and welcoming’._ So that was what Neil had given them.

Foxes, small ones, ran and played and grew strong on the shutter door, with azaleas all around and peach blossoms above. One bigger fox sat watching them on a bed of mayflowers. Proteas stood behind it, mirrored on the opposite side of the mural where an oak tree stood guard. It was a sunny scene and there was peace there, but the foxes had teeth and claws and their edges were sharp enough to cut.

Neil started with a pencil. He sketched the rough shapes according to his template, taking care not to smudge the lines, then worked his way to the finer details and rearranged a few things as he went. Once he was satisfied with it, he finally got to uncap the cans of paint. He started with the base colors, filling the lines with orange, pink, white, brown and dark green, taking care not to let the paint drip anywhere it wasn’t supposed to.

Once the base was done, he had to take a break. The acrylic needed about an hour to dry completely, so he figured he’d stretch his limbs and eat a late lunch. He couldn’t wander too far off without risking a theft, however, and ended up buying a cheap and bland sandwich from the bakery that faced the coffee shop.

It was only then that his favorite part began. Now he could blend the colors, mix them, work out the details and the shading, add movement and life to the scene. Now he got to play with textures and patterns and lighting, with the bark of the oak and the bite of the fox and the brightness of the mayflowers. On a whim, he decided to add a thick, black outline to the foxes, jagged and irregular, stylizing it so it looked almost like a flame. He made the flowers look brighter in contrast, turned the tree into a foil, tweaked the light so it flirted with the mystical.

At some point, Neil edged out of his frenzy long enough to take several steps back and look at the whole thing.

It was perfect.

Except for all the ways it wasn’t.

Neil picked up the smaller brushes and went in again, correcting details here and there, chasing a perfection that would remain out of reach for as long as he’d keep looking for it. That was fine by him - Neil didn’t actually want the mural to be perfect. All he was after, all he needed, was that moment - that _there it is_ , where he’d take a step back and exhale, and everything would just - settle. And he’d knew that was it.

He was getting close, Neil could feel it, so _very_ close, when the stupidest thing happened.

Neil had just noticed something off with the color of one of the proteas and had stepped down the ladder to retrieve the brush he’d been using for the deep pinks, rushing back towards the mural immediately, when someone had run into him.

Or, perhaps more accurately, when _he_ had _crashed into_ someone. With a paintbrush dripping pink and his hands (and everything else) covered in paint.

There was a rough sound from the someone as they collided, and then the wet sound of a paintbrush full of paint landing against a hard surface. The someone was shorter, so Neil looked down.

Very, very annoyed eyes met his.

The guy stepped back with a scowl, letting his hand drop from Neil’s arm, where it’d landed, Neil assumed, to steady the both of them. He was blond, and broad, and dressed in all black from head to toe. It made the large pink stain on his chest all the more conspicuous.

In terms of contrast though, Neil couldn’t help but notice, it worked. Pale hair, pale skins and golden eyes set against a vast darkness, dominating the whole but for one splash of vibrant color. It was threefold, and ridiculous, and Neil wanted to paint it.

Which is why Neil said, “I think I found your color,” instead of apologizing like a normal person. 

But to be fair, he hadn’t been ‘normal’ since his birth. Being born into the mafia tended to do that to you.

The man’s eyebrows twitched, and the corner of his mouth curled ever so slightly down. “What you did is ruin my shirt.”

Neil felt a smile pull at his lips. “I don’t know. I think it looks better that way. Makes you look more... approachable. Less like a criminal, what with all the black.”

“I don’t care about looking ‘approachable.’ And you’re the one vandalising someone else’s private property.”

“I’m not vandalising anything. This is my job. I have a permit and everything.”

“Congratulations,” the man deadpanned.

“I’ve done it before,” Neil said, smiling sharply. “Painting illegally. It’s not typically done by daylight.”

“How surprising. I take it you’re Wymack’s new stray.”

Neil’s smile vanished. “I’m not a stray,” he said, though he had been. But he’d worked hard to make sure he’d never be again. Then the rest of the man’s statement struck him, and he couldn’t help but ask. “How do you know Wymack?”

“I used to work for him,” the man answered, laconically. Neil waited for him to say more, but he just turned around to stare at the mural instead. Something itched in Neil’s hands - an urge to hide it, protect it from all eyes until it was perfect - but he let it go. He took a step forward so he was standing next to the man instead of behind him, and looked at the mural for himself.

One of the proteas was paler than the others. There was a leaf he’d forgotten to highlight. One of the azalea’s pistil was barely visible. The outline of one fox could use more precision.

They were little things - inconsequential but nonetheless present, and he felt a pull to correct them - but even then, something in his chest just - _settled._

“Kitschy,” the man’s voice drawled on his left. “But I suppose that’s fitting.”

Neil shrugged. He was happy with it. It did fit the place, but also the vibe he’d wanted for it. “It’s done.”

The man’s gaze flickered down to the paintbrush Neil still held in his hand, one eyebrow arched in question although his face looked bored.

Neil shrugged again. “I thought it needed more. I was wrong,” he stated, and smiled at the man, half-grinning by the end. “Thank you for the change of perspective. I could have ruined it, if I hadn’t run into you.”

“How… fortunate,” the man said, flat-voiced and not meaning a word of it.

Neil took the whole mural in one last time, then slightly shook his head and turned to clean up his mess. He dumped the brushes in the bucket of water he’d used to clean the wall, then picked up one of the rags he used to wipe paint off and handed it to the man. He’d turned away from the wall as well, and took the rag with both eyebrows raised.

Neil gestured at his own chest, around where the stain was. “So you can wipe the worst of the paint off,” he explained, then pointed at the bucket. “Dunk it in the water there, it’s got soap in. It won’t take it all of, but I’ll take you to my place once I’m done packing up and you can wash it there.”

“Why would I do that?”

Neil blinked up from the paint can he was closing. “Because I live like ten minutes away and I have a washer and dryer?”

“I don’t know you.”

Neil shrugged. “I’m Neil,” he said, holding out his hand. The man stared at it without moving. Neil looked at it, noticed the amount of paint smeared on it, and took it away. “Neil Josten. I’m a painter.”

“I noticed,” the man said, then rolled his eyes at Neil’s expectant look. “Andrew Minyard.”

Neil grinned. “I’ve heard about you. Are you the journalist, or the doctor?”

Andrew scowled. “Journalist.”

Neil hummed. “Thought so.”

Andrew went back to wiping his shirt with the wet cloth, and Neil walked over to the bucket so he could start scrubbing the brushes clean.

He always lost himself in the task. There was something cathartic about sitting there, rubbing the paint off and seeing it swirl and mix in the water, after spending so many hours with his mind directed solely at the mural, attention and focus held so taut that he’d sometimes forget to blink. Tidying up, in contrast, was a mindless task. It set his brain at rest and allowed him to come back down to earth.

By the time he was finished, Andrew was long done with his shirt and stood leaning against the wall with his cellphone in hand, waiting.

“Changed your mind?” Neil called out to him.

Andrew barely even glanced at him. “I’m not the one inviting a stranger into my home.”

Neil shrugged. “You know Wymack. That’s enough for me.”

“Your survival instincts are disastrous.”

Neil’s grin split his face in half. “You have no idea.”

That earned him a look, but nothing else.

Loading everything back into the van took longer without help (Andrew looked up a few times as Neil came and went, but that was it), but soon enough everything had been put away and all that was left for Neil to do was to tell Wymack he was done. When he looked up from his phone, he found Andrew standing some ways in front of him, his own phone nowhere to be seen.

Neil tilted his head towards the passenger door. “Ready to go?”

All he got in reply was a soft huff, and then Andrew was opening the door and getting in. Neil was smiling as he walked over to the other side of the van and hopped in.

“The paint will wash off,” Neil offered as the van rumbled to life. “It resists to the rain, but not the washing machine.”

“We all have a breaking point.”

Neil supposed that was true. He’d seen plenty of people break, and had come close himself several times.

Unlike paint, though, people could get back up. Even when there was more scar tissue left than skin, muscles would pull and pull at the body until it stood.

Neil didn’t say this. He didn’t know how, and doubted Andrew would understand if he had. 

Then again, if he’d worked with Wymack, maybe he would.

It was this thought, and the comforting manoeuvering of his van through an itinerary he knew in his sleep, that pushed Neil to _try._

“People are more like bones than paint,” he told Andrew. The look he got in response was so intentionally bored it pushed Neil to try harder. Like maybe, if he could find the right words, Andrew’s blank surface would crack and he’d get a glimpse at the colors hidden beneath. “Paint washes off. Or fades. And if you want to, you can always cover it up,” he said. He wasn’t looking at Andrew anymore, but the attention directed at him was unwavering as he spoke. “People aren’t so easy to get rid off. We bend, and we give, and we break,” he took a steadying breath, eyes intent on the road even as the mangled lines marring his hands pulled at the skin, “but we mend. We scar. We stand back up. And we keep going.”

 _Run,_ his mother had told him more than once. _Never look back. There is nothing for you there._

It had worked for him, for a while. As long as he hadn’t looked back, all that had existed for him was a narrow path forward, and the impossibility to slow down. His survival had depended on it. But when she’d died - Neil’d stumbled. She had died and Neil had tripped over her corpse and nothing would ever wash that landmark off the surface of his life. Neil had slowed down. The path had still been there, but everything around it had been there, too. A little blurred, a little out of focus, but the longer he had stared, the clearer it had become - and the slower he had run.

Of course, it’d meant that they caught up to him.

But he’d survived.

He had found help and had gotten back up and he had kept going.

And through it all, he’d learned to stop running.

“Not all of us do.”

Andrew’s voice startled Neil. It brought him out of autopilot and pulled his thoughts back to traffic as efficiently as if he’d been pinched. It took several seconds for the words to make sense.

“No,” Neil agreed. “We don’t. My mother didn’t,” he added, flicking a glance at Andrew’s profile and smiling when Andrew turned to look at him and stayed. “But I did. And I have a feeling you did too.”

“You know nothing about me.”

“That’s not true,” Neil countered. “I know you worked for Wymack. I know you’re a journalist, and that you have a twin who’s a doctor and whose name also starts with an A. I also know that Kevin thinks your diet’s disastrous and your journalistic skills impressive. Judging from the articles I’ve read, I’d say he’s right.”

“So you really are Neil Josten,” Andrew retorted, something tense in his tone. “I wondered. Tell me, are you this obsessed with every acquaintance Kevin has, or should I feel flattered?”

“I’m not a stalker,” Neil protested. “Kevin just can’t shut up about you. And I get why. That piece you did on the Moriyamas -” Neil cut himself off before he could say _you were right_ . He was _not_ ready for that conversation. Maybe later, if their paths crossed again, which - Neil was surprised to find out - he was hoping they would. He faltered for a bit, before settling for an honest, “It was brilliant,” and hoping Andrew wouldn’t question it.

No such luck.

“Was it now,” Andrew droned. It wasn’t said like a question.

Neil tensed. He knew Andrew had noticed when he met his eyes, but stubbornly refused to acknowledge it as he started to park his van in the exact same spot he’d pulled it out of in the morning. He was thankful when he started to unload his equipment and Andrew didn’t pry. He just stood there and smoked.

 _When you feel yourself start to spiral, focus on what your senses tell you, not your mind,_ his therapist had said. Neil dutifully focused on the task at hand and the smell of ash until the taste of blood had all but vanished from his mouth.

When he’d locked the door to the shed he kept all his work stuff in, Neil finally felt centered enough to speak again.

“I hope you’re not allergic to cats,” he told Andrew. “Sir’s very affectionate.”

Andrew arched an eyebrow. “Your cat’s name is Sir.”

Neil grinned. This was a topic he could relax into. “Sir Fat Cat MacCattherson. She’s fat.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed.”

Neil led them to the stairs. Andrew didn’t protest.

“I’m not the one who named him. Do you know Allison?”

“Yes,” Andrew said, distaste evident in his voice. “Tragically.”

Neil shrugged. “She’s not that bad.” Andrew apparently had nothing to say to that. Neil wasn’t deterred. “Do you have a pet?”

“I have a cat.”

“What’s its name then?”

A pause. Then an aggravated sigh. “King Fluffkins.”

Neil stopped. He turned around to catch the expression on Andrew’s face, and raised both eyebrows. “I’m going to guess it wasn’t your idea.”

Andrew looked unimpressed. “Congratulations, it was my cousin’s. You guessed correctly and win nothing,” he deadpanned, and pushed past Neil.

They stopped on the first floor. Andrew remained silent as Neil opened the three locks on his door, and didn’t question it when Neil locked them back up once they’d slipped inside.

Sir came up to them to investigate as soon as she’d heard the door, as Neil had known she would. She headbutted Neil’s shin first, then wandered over to sniff Andrew. He waited for her to rub against his leg before offering her his hand, which she sniffed some more, then rubbed against to ask for petting. Andrew dutifully indulged her. The softness that came over his features was subtle, but unmistakable. It caught Neil by surprise.

Once Sir had had her fill and wandered off, however, all the tension that’d left immediately returned to Andrew’s shoulders.

Neil could sympathise. Entering someone else’s space always left him on edge the first few times. It’d taken months for him to feel at ease in the flat Matt shared with Dan, and they’d already been friends. Andrew and Neil were strangers. Allowing him in his flat would have been unthinkable years ago; now it simply left Neil unbalanced. At least he’d have something to report to his therapist the following week.

“Is it okay if I throw some of my stuff in with your shirt?” Neil asked to distract himself from the feeling. When Andrew nodded, he retrieved the laundry basket in his room.

He pointed Andrew towards the laundry/storage room with his chin and Andrew held the door open for him, since his own hands were occupied with the laundry basket. He emptied it into the washing machine, then picked out the few items that would need some stain-remover to go back to their original state.

“I’m surprised we didn’t meet earlier,” Neil mused out loud as he poured the detergent into the little plastic drawer and pushed it shut.

Andrew was leaning against the wall when Neil turned around, watching him. “Kevin likes to keep his life compartmentalised.”

“He’s dating a former Raven,” Neil pointed out, frowning.

“Former. Why do you think they haven’t tried to transfer into the same team?” Andrew said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Neil thought about it. He’d assumed Kevin had tried, but had never been curious enough to ask. It made sense now. It’d also explain why they still hadn’t made their relationship public.

“I just thought Kevin was emotionally crippled,” he said.

“He is,” Andrew stated, then gestured impatiently with his hand. “But I’m done talking about Kevin’s boring life.”

“He’s a gold-winning olympic athlete,” Neil pointed out.

Andrew made a disgusted sound. “ He’s Kevin. He could be the queen of England, and I’d still be bored discussing his life for more than two minutes.” He shifted against the wall so he was facing Neil, eyes narrowed and suddenly sharper than they’d been. “I’d rather we talk about you, Neil Josten. I can’t figure you out.”

Neil’s hand tensed on the edge of the washing machine. He put it in his pocket and leaned a hip where it had been, smiling to hide the learned anxiety that was rising in his guts.

“I’m not that interesting.”

“Oh, but I think you are,” Andrew said, leaning slightly forward like he wanted to tell Neil a secret. “Everything about you says damaged goods, yet here you are. Bringing a stranger into your home on a whim. Doesn’t exactly align with the amount of locks you’ve got on your door, now, does it?”

Neil bristled. “I’m not defenseless.”

Andrew looked into his eyes without flinching. “No,” he said, a thoughtful tone to it. “I don’t think you are.”

Neil frowned. He didn’t know what Andrew meant by that. Was he talking about his scars? Had Neil let his past show, somehow? Had Kevin talked more than he should have?

Neil shook his head. _Relax._ Took a deep breath. _You’re not on the run anymore._

He leaned away from the washing machine and gestured at Andrew’s stained shirt. “I’ll get you a shirt or something so you can take this off.”

Andrew said nothing. He followed Neil to his room, stopping at the entrance to lean against the doorframe as Neil rummaged through his clothes. He had the nagging feeling that he was being evaluated, somehow. Andrew was judging him. Neil decided to ignore it and focused on finding a t-shirt that would fit Andrew’s broader frame, settling on a grey hoodie that’d always been a little oversized on him.

“Here,” he said, handing the hoodie to Andrew, who took it without a word. “You can change in the bathroom over there.”

The hoodie fitted Andrew fine. It was a little tight around the arms and shoulders, but not enough that it looked uncomfortable. Neil took the shirt from Andrew and sprayed the stain-remover where it was needed, then threw it into the machine and started the cleaning cycle.

“It’s gonna take about an hour for the cycle to be over,” he told Andrew. “And then another half-hour for it to dry.”

Andrew’s brows furrowed slightly, but he did not otherwise complain, so Neil told him to make himself comfortable on the couch and slipped into his own room to change. He threw his work overalls on a chair so the fresh stains from the mural would dry, and exchanged it for a pair of sweatpants and an old t-shirt.

Andrew’s eyes trailed over his arms when he returned to the living room, a spark of interest in his gaze as he took in the mismatched mix of tattoos and scars that covered them. If he noticed that Neil had caught him looking, it didn’t show. Maybe he didn’t care. Neil brushed it off either way and made his way over to the kitchen part of the room, pulling one glass out of a cabinet then turning towards Andrew.

“Do you want something to drink? I’ve got tap water and juice.”

“Depends on the juice.”

Neil opened the fridge to check. “I’ve got apple, tomato, orange, ananas, or grapefruit.”

“Apple. That’s a lot of juices.”

“I like juice,” Neil said, and shrugged. He got the brick of apple juice out of the fridge and poured two glasses of it, shutting the fridge’s door with his hip. He stuck the juice under one armpit then and brought the glasses over to the coffee table, setting one of them down in front of Andrew. He sat down on the other cushion with his own glass.

Andrew sipped at the juice. Neil leaned down into the back of the couch and sighed. He could feel his body finally allowing itself to relax after the hours of painting. He turned his head towards Andrew and was about to ask him if he wanted to watch a movie or something while they waited when Andrew glanced down at his exposed forearm.

“What does this one represent?” he asked.

Neil followed his gaze down to the tattoo. It was one of the first ones he’d gotten: the outline of a card, with a burning car trapped inside. Below the card was a date.

Neil swallowed. He could almost feel the heat radiating off of it now, even after all those years. It burned his eyes. He looked away from the tattoo and found Andrew’s eyes instead, studying him. Brown eyes, like the earth. Unwavering.

He didn’t know why, exactly, looking into Andrew’s eyes made the words spill. But they did.

“It’s my mother’s funeral,” he said. His voice was low. Barely above a whisper. Andrew was listening. “She died in that car. I was too weak to pull her out, so I burned it.” If Neil closed his eyes, he could see it. The vast expanse of sand and the sea, rolling back and forth in rhythm. The flames filling up the car like they were trying to eat it. The smell.

Andrew bumped his knee with Neil’s and the beach disappeared.

“I buried her ashes on the beach.”

Andrew held his gaze for a little while longer, and then he turned away. His other knee - the one he hadn’t used to bring Neil back - jumped three times. When he spoke, his voice sounded oddly distant.

“The woman who gave birth to me abandoned me to the foster system. When we were ‘reunited’, I found out she’d been abusing my brother for years.” Andrew took a sip out of his glass. “So I killed her.”

Neil wasn’t as surprised as he probably ought to be. There was something about Andrew that spoke of violence. Not right here. Not in the present. Yet it was etched into him like a giant scar.

“What about your father?”

Andrew shrugged. “Doesn’t exist.”

Neil sighed. “I wish I’d never known mine,” he said. “But at least I got to see him die.”

The weight of Andrew’s gaze on the side of his face was strangely comforting. When he raised his glass in the air, Neil turned to follow the motion with his eyes.

“To dead parents,” Andrew said, and tipped his glass back.

Neil laughed.

* * *

They watched _Grey’s Anatomy._ Neil managed to make it through the first two minutes of the first episode before starting to roast the stupidity of the cast. Andrew joined in immediately. Neil laughed too many times to count, and managed to make Andrew snort several times in return.

They were well into the third episode when Andrew’s phone rang. The phone call itself couldn’t have lasted more than thirty seconds, but by the time Andrew had hung up, it was clear that he needed to go.

They’d forgotten to check on the laundry, however, so it’d just sat there in the washing machine for at least half an hour, which meant that Andrew’s shirt wasn’t dry. It also meant that Andrew couldn’t trade it for the hoodie he was still wearing.

In the end, Neil told Andrew to keep the hoodie, and Andrew gave Neil his phone number so they could meet up and return their respective items of clothing. Neil didn’t have a habit of inviting people over, but the flat felt oddly empty once Andrew was gone. He went for a run. It helped.

They traded the hoodie and the shirt a few days later. They’d agreed on the coffee shop where Andrew got his caffeine fix every day, and sat down to wait for their drinks. Neil asked what Andrew was working on, and just like that a whole hour passed.

There was no reason that they should meet again after that. Sure, they’d probably cross paths sooner or later due to their intersecting social circles. But there was no reason to make it happen on their own.

Except - well.

There was no reason that they _shouldn’t_ meet again, either.

* * *

**[5:24pm] Hey, Andrew.**

**[5:26pm] Neil.**

**[5:26pm] I need a favor.**

**[5:27pm] Careful, Josten. You already owe me a shirt.**

**[5:28pm] Like hell I do. Your shirt is fine.**

**[5:29pm] Easy for you to say. You don’t have to wear it.**

**[5:30pm] The shirt is fine, Andrew.**

**[5:31pm] Would you go to art therapy with me next weekend?**

**[5:32pm] Why?**

**[5:36pm] My therapist thinks I should try it. She said it could ‘help me address some of the more repressed parts of my trauma.’**

**[5:38pm] Sounds fun.**

**[5:38pm] Ha ha.**

**[5:40pm] Are you coming with or not?**

**[5:42pm] Sure. But I’m not painting.**

**[5:43pm] You won’t have to. I’ll text you the address and time.**

**[5:44pm] Thanks, Andrew.**

**[5:46pm] Don’t mention it.**

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Kudos and comments are my food and water.


End file.
